


Summer Lovin'

by Kestrealbird



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Fluff, Genderfluid Barry Allen, Grease AU, Hal Is A Moron, Humor, Innacurate depiction of cinema, M/M, mutual pining (kind of), nothing like the film!, the beginning of a smut scene, the vagueist grease au ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 04:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20860499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrealbird/pseuds/Kestrealbird
Summary: “I could always show you around the place,” he offers, acting like he hasn’t got anything better to do.Barry stands up from his seat, smirking. “Or,” Barry counters, “you could stop trying to pretend you’re not flirting with me and just be honest from the start.”





	Summer Lovin'

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this thing for 3 months now and I am FINALLY fucking finished with it good lord this took forever. Do I regret it? No. Do I wish I'd finished it way sooner? Absolutely. Burnout and writers block were my biggest enemies but you know what? We did it lads and that's what matters
> 
> Based on [this](https://cassiestephensart.tumblr.com/post/185558699600/teatitty-halbarry-grease-au-teatitty-how-dare) art my by friend Cass! Sorry it took so long to get out, love you!

Hal would like it to be known that he has pretty high standards for a guy who has new flings every summer. Natural blondes are a definite start, but he’s not about to spend the whole summer with someone who’s  _ boring  _ and can’t hold a conversation to save their life. Kyle is, like, the only exception to that, but it helps that Kyle once broke his skateboard over a homophobe’s face with the same calm serenity you might display when listening to operatics.

Hal would  _ also  _ like it to be known that he  _ isn’t  _ afraid of commitment (no matter  _ what  _ John says to the contrary) he just doesn’t see the point in settling down when highschool - and college, soon enough - is supposed to be about  _ excitement  _ and  _ adventure _ .

His flings have never caused any problems before, either. Sure, he has a bit of a reputation now - he has a lot of “reputations” and that’s neither here nor there - but it’s the good kind; the kind that makes people swoon when they see him walking down the hallway,  _ and  _ the kind that makes even the burliest of jocks consider that they should, maybe, give him a go. Just to see what all the fuss is about.

He’s kind of a big deal, is what he’s saying. He’s also part of the  _ greatest  _ clique ever - the Lantern Corps, a name coined by Jessica and Simon before they moved to different pastures.  _ And _ he works on cars with John and Guy on the weekends.

Hal has every reason to be just a little bit on the cocky side of things. The swagger of his walk gives that much away, if the crooked smirks don't make your knees go weak beforehand.

So he has a bit of an ego. Sue him.

Knowing all of this, it might be surprising to learn that he’s always been top of his class, and likes to study in the public library. It’s quiet, there, and he can nab a few sci-fi books if he gets bored. He even has his own table, tucked away in the corner under a window, with the best cushions for naps. 

He walks in with a spring in his step, humming the latest Top 40 pop hit, flashing a charming smile at Charlotte as he goes. She was one of his past flings, and she still blushes when she meets his eyes. It’s flattering, but he has no plans to hang out with her again. There was only so many times he could listen to someone talk about their star-sign compatibility before he threw himself off a cliff.

There’s someone sitting at his table. Not in his seat, thank god, because he doesn’t want to be that asshole, but there’s someone here regardless. Hal blinks, a couple of times, as if he’s hallucinating. The person doesn’t miraculously evaporate, but the book that’s propped up in front of them does turn a page. 

They must be from out of town, Hal concludes, because no-one but his clique  _ ever  _ sits at his table. That’s just how it is down here. Everyone has their own seat, and everyone else respects that and sticks to themselves. 

Sliding into his chair- the one with the worn out NASA cushion and his initials carved into the back - Hal takes a glance at the cover of the book. It’s a science study book. A very high-grade one at that, all about chemicals and biology. He’d glanced at the pages a few years ago, but the small writing and the weird font had given him a headache, and he’d had to put it down for something else.

A voice calls out from behind the monstrosity, in a tone that Hal recognizes as ‘I’ve been cram studying for 3 days and haven’t gotten any sleep.’ 

“Do you want something?”

Hal drums his fingers against the table. “I’d like my table back for a start.”

The voice groans. “Oh god,” they say, “you’re one of  _ those  _ places.” 

Hal knows exactly what they mean. Not everyone has these table rules, and Oliver still isn’t used to them either. Most out of towners usually aren’t. 

The persons accent strikes him as being decidedly not american, but he can’t quite place where it might be from. “Are you going to talk behind that book the whole time or can we be polite and civil?”

A moment of contemplation, and then the books gets lowered with a sigh, and Hal is looking at one hell of a gorgeous fricking blonde. The dude’s hair is way shorter than his own, skin peachy and looking like it’d be easily sunburnt. His eyes are a brilliant, bright blue and his fingernails are manicured, painted a pale shade of pink.

“Isn’t it rude to interrupt someone whose trying to study?”

Hal grins, leaning backwards in his chair. “ _ You’re _ the one who spoke first.  _ I  _ didn’t do anything.”

“Tch. Dammit.”

He really is quite the looker, Hal notes, even with the weird sweater-over-shirt look he’s got going on. His lips are all shiny, too, so he definitely uses gloss.

Hal sticks out a hand because he was raised with manners. “Hal Jordan,” he says, “resident  _ handsome  _ bachelor.” It’s mostly a joke to test the waters, feel out the guys sense of humour, maybe get a laugh if he can.

The guy shakes his hand with a firm grip, lips quirking with amusement. He’ll take what he can get. “Barry Allen,” he says. “Resident irishman.” 

Snapping his fingers, Hal gives another grin. “ _ That’s _ where the accent is from.”

Barry snorts. “Mmhm. It’s not as strong as my mom’s is though.”

“You’re a little far from home then, aren’t you?” Then, light-heartedly, he adds, “don’t tell me you fell for the film propaganda. America’s not as great as it looks.”

Barry actually looks a little bit offended at the suggestion. “I’m not here because I think it’s  _ nice _ . If I wanted nice I’d have gone to Sweden.”

“So why didn’t you?”

Barry shrugs, looking a little bit embarrassed. “...the flight here was cheaper when we left, and I wanted a better education for science.”

He’d be a fool not to take that chance now that he has it. He makes a point to look down at his nails, says, “I could help you with biology if you wanted. I’ve been told I have some,” he lowers his voice just a tad, makes it huskier, “ _ experience _ on the subject.”

“Which organ are you willing to donate?” 

Barry’s smooth reply startles a laugh out of him - a real laugh, the kind that sounds sort of pig-like, and isn’t at all flattering. “Wow,” he wheezes, “I haven't had that reply before.” Normally it’s way more suggestive, sometimes a little shy, but never something that shoots him down so spectacularly.

“I think there’s a lot of things you’ve never had before,” Barry muses, closing his books to give Hal his full attention. Strike one for Hal. 

Hal leans into his space, arms crossed on the table. “Name one,” he challenges.

Barry looks at him, dead in the eyes, with absolutely no fear whatsoever. “No-one’s ever scratched your back and left marks behind.”

Hal chokes. He’s right. “How did you -”

“You keep looking at my nails,” Barry informs him like it’s no big deal at all. “Your eyes go a little dilated when you do. Wasn’t hard to figure out.”

He hadn’t even noticed he’d been doing that. Well damn. Gorgeous, funny  _ and  _ intelligent? Fuck but he’d hit the jackpot here hadn’t he?

“Alright then,” Hal snickers, “let me guess something about you.”

Barry makes a gesture with his hand, leaning back in a somewhat cocky manner, convinced that Hal won’t be able to. Unfortunately, Hal’s a lot more observant then he looks. Perks about being a middle-child, he supposes.

“You’ve never been kissed before. On the mouth anyway.” He takes great satisfaction in the way Barry flusters.

“I’ve -!” Barry starts, then gives up immediately. “No,” he admits mulishly, “I haven’t. How’d you guess.”

Hal makes a pointed look at his lips. “You keep looking at my mouth and biting your own. That gloss won’t do you any good if you ruin it, you know.”

“Son of a  _ bitch _ .”

“So I’ve been told,” Hal agrees lightly. “If it’s bothering you that much I can always be your first.” He’s laying it on a bit thick, he’ll admit, but he gets rewarded when a light blush stains Barry’s ears. It’s adorable.

“You’re a regular old playboy, aren't you?” Barry teases, as if Hal is anything at all like Bruce “rich boy” Wayne.

“Please,” he sniffs, “I have more class than that.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“I,” Hal declares, puffing out his chest, “am an absolute  _ stud _ .”

Barry stares at him, disbelieving, and when it becomes obvious that Hal is, mostly, completely serious, he has to cover his mouth to stifle his laughter, tiny wheezes slipping through his fingers. “That - that’s the  _ weirdest  _ brag I’ve ever heard.”

Success. Strike two for Hal. “What, you don’t think I’m attractive enough?” 

Just throw it out there, make it normal, like he’s not putting on any moves at all. Barry doesn’t blush, or stutter, or get flirty right back like Hal’s other flings have done in the past. It’s an all new reaction, which excites him, just a little.

“You’re attractive  _ enough _ , I suppose,” Barry muses, looking him up and down with a quick flick of his eyes. Despite his words, Hal knows appreciation when he sees it, and stretches his hands behind his head, showing off just a hint of stomach muscles. Barry doesn’t lean forward for a better look, but his eyes do track the movement.

Hal can work with this. It’s a new pace, sure, one that he’s not familiar with, but he didn’t get this far by staying in the safe lanes and avoiding trouble. He just needs to find out if Barry is actually interested, or if the appreciation is as far as he goes.

“I could always show you around the place,” he offers, acting like he hasn’t got anything better to do.

Barry stands up from his seat, smirking. “ _ Or, _ ” Barry counters, “you could stop trying to pretend you’re  _ not  _ flirting with me and just be honest from the start.”

Hal chokes on his tongue, equilibrium thrown off-balance. He tries not to flounder, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Barry had caught him hook, line and sinker. But he hadn’t stopped Hal from trying. Really, it’s all he can do to laugh at himself.

“Normal charm doesn’t work on you, does it?” Hal’s not offended by it. He finds it more engaging if he’s honest. But if Barry really isn’t interested then he’ll back off without another word and continue on his day, maybe see if Nicholas is still up for that movie. Always good to have a back-up plan.

Gathering his things, Barry looks up at him from behind his lashes, and leans so far forward across the table that their noses are nearly brushing. “Not really,” he murmurs, amused. “Guess you’ll just have to try something else next time.”

Hal blinks, taken off-guard, and that’s all the time Barry needs to slip out the door, disappearing down the street before Hal can process that he just got  _ challenged _ , of all things.

He licks his lips, biting down on giddy laughter. He can do a challenge. He’ll give Barry the best summer of his  _ life _ .

~~~

They’re out shopping for groceries when he brings the whole thing up to John. Casually, of course, like he’d just been talking about the weather. He doesn’t bother skipping on any of the details and he might, possibly, go on a bit too long about how pretty Barry was. But, you know, weakness for blonde’s and all that.

“You like him, then,” John states matter-of-factly, perusing the shelves for canned fruits or something. 

“He’s just interesting is all,” Hal huff's, swiping a chocolate bar when he thinks no-one is looking. John gives him the side-eye - whether for the chocolate or the comment, Hal can’t be sure - and pointedly picks up a jar of peanut-butter to show how he feels about it.

Hal despises peanut-butter. “Mature, John. Real mature.”

John’s lips quirk into a smile. “Just lowering myself to your standards is all.”

Now  _ that  _ was just  _ rude _ .

“See if I ever cover  _ your  _ shift at the garage again.”

“Oh no,” John deadpans, “whatever shall I do without you when Guy is _ right there _ .”

Hal scoffs. “As if he’d ever do that.” Guy will do a lot of things for them - namely taking a few good hits in a fight - but more work? Never. In his own words, he likes to get home at “reasonable times.”

“I can blackmail him.” John’s tone is so blasé that Hal flounders for a moment, mouth gaping.

“You’re kidding right? John? Buddy?” He doesn’t get a response. It’s hard to tell when John is being serious. He has this...air about him that makes you believe he could get away with the perfect murder. Kyle reckons he already has, but Oliver says it’s just their own delusions.

Hal has been on the fence about it for years. Definitively, he can say he agrees with Kyle now.

“Do you even know where he lives?” John asks.

Hal has way more confidence then he should when he replies, “absolutely not, no.”

John picks up another jar of peanut-butter. “How do you plan on giving him the ‘best summer of his life’ if you can’t find him?”

“I know he studies at the library.” He gives a one-armed shrug, eyeing up the sweet packets before John bops him on the head with a newspaper. “I’ll just visit everyday and see when he shows up.”

“You know that sounds like something a  _ stalker  _ would do, right?”

He is very much aware of that, yes. “Barry’s the one who issued the challenge in the first place. It’ll be  _ fine _ .”

John doesn’t look the slightest bit convinced. If anything it looks like he’s already planning Hal’s jailbreak. “You,” he says, “are delirious.”

~~~

Hal would like it to be known that he is not, in fact, delirious. He is, however, incredibly determined, and it only takes a week for him to see Barry again, in the same library, in the same spot. Except this time he’s trying to reach a book on one of the upper shelves, stretching as far as he can and looking more and more  _ frustrated  _ by the second.

From this angle, Hal gets a very good look at his, ah,  _ assets _ , as it were, and spends a few seconds admiring them. Those legs look like something straight out of his own fantasies, and Barry’s hips look perfect for holding on a dancefloor. He’s not even going to  _ start  _ on Barry’s ass, because that’s going to take him down a very  _ deep  _ rabbit hole  _ very  _ quickly.

Shaking those thoughts from his treacherous brain, Hal quickly adjusts his hair in the tiny mirror he has in his pocket, then, satisfied, he strides over so he’s leaning against the bookshelf right next to Barry. “Need a hand?”

“No,” Barry huff’s, straining on his toes, “I got it.” It’s painful to watch, if he’s being honest, the way that Barry’s fingers keep sliding off the spine of the book he wants, barely managing to reach the base.

Hal swipes it for him anyway, ignoring the noise of protest, raising a brow at the title. “Beginner’s Guide To Ballroom,” he reads, “Learn the Waltz in Easy Steps.”

It gets swiped from his hands in record time. “That,” Barry hisses, “is mine.”

“Technically,” Hal says, bored, “it’s the library’s until you rent it.” Stepping back so he’s not in striking range, he asks, “why do you need it? Just take lessons.”

Books like that are a sham. You can’t learn a dance by reading about it, you have to  _ see  _ the movement; live in the moment and  _ feel  _ the music flirting in your veins.

“Lessons are expensive,” Barry tuts, tucking the book into his bag. “Besides, I only have a few days to learn.” Quieter, with venom, he adds, “stupid street parties.”

Hopefully it’s the crowds he’s not a fan of instead of the music, because that would royally suck, for many reasons. “Guess you’re being forced to go, then, huh?”

Barry lets out a sigh, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “Mum means well. She just wants me to socialize more.” He bites his lip again, scraping off some of the gloss. Hal tracks the movement like a hawk, eyes flickering of their own volition. “I promised to stay for one dance,” Barry continues, “and then I’ll leave.”

Hal thinks about that; Barry dancing with someone, hips swaying and holding hands. A waltz, he thinks, would suit Barry. Maybe a tango, if he was dancing with Hal only. Before his mouth has caught up with his brain, Hal blurts out, “I can teach you,” and tries not to kick himself. 

Oh well. Maybe direct approaches are what he needs.

“You can dance?”

“All kinds,” he confirms, chest puffing up proudly. “I was brought up on ballroom.” Winking, he adds, “it helps impress my dates.”

That earns him a snort, a roll of the eyes, too, with no real heat behind it. 

Fiddling with the straps on his bag, Barry thinks it over, chewing his bottom lip. 

Hal lets him. Pointedly looks elsewhere, perusing the shelves like he isn’t waiting on bated breaths. His jacket feels too hot on him, all of a sudden, and it’s just a stupid crush. He’d had a crush on Carol, too, and look where that got him. Arguments and accusations flying between them both until they stormed away from each other, never to speak again.

He can’t do long-term; too personal, too close to being hurt all over again. But summer flings? He gets the affection, the love, that he craves and never has to worry about anything else. He hopes that’s all Barry’s going to be. 

“Is this you asking me on a date?” Barry’s voice snaps him back to attention, carrying a note of unease.

Hal swallows the sudden lump in his throat, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Nah,” he says, “just thought you’d appreciate the help.”

And it’s true. If he wanted this to be a date, he’d say so. 

“Tonight then,” Barry says. “At the carnival, I mean.” He licks his lips, this time, instead of biting. “I want to try some of the games there.”

That sounds an awful lot like a date, Hal doesn’t say, lest he ruin his chances. “Alright then.” He knows where the carnival is. There’s a huge field all around it that nobody really explores. The stars are gorgeous there; perfect for a dancing atmosphere. “Tonight, then.”

One of them should leave - should be the one to walk out the door, instead of just standing here, shoulders almost touching where they’re starting to lean into each other’s space. Barry is warm, and Hal can’t bring himself to break this little spell between them. It feels like there’s a special pocket around them - a space carved out in time just for them. 

He used to feel this way the first time he met Carol. With her, though, it always felt like time stood still, instead of existing in a separate space entirely.

God, when did he get so horrifyingly romantic?

It’s Barry who breaks the spell, awkwardly clearing his throat and stepping away from Hal’s bubble. “I should, er, get back home,” he offers weakly. “Gotta get prepared for the, um, thingie -” he winces at his own words, voice becoming a mumble - “tonight. Yeah.” 

He rushes out without saying goodbye, ears aflame. Hal’s neck is pleasantly warm, lips stretched into the softest smile he’s ever felt on his own face.

If he starts skipping, well, that’s no-one’s business but his own.

\---

They never came up with a time or exact location, which only causes Hal anxiety when he drives up to the carnival, nervously tapping his foot by the gates and looking at his watch every few minutes. People flood in and out the whole time he waits, and all he can do is pray that Barry isn’t already inside somewhere, lost in the crowds. 

He wouldn’t want Barry to think he’d been stood up. Not that this is a date, of course! Probably. Maybe. He’s not really sure what it is. Not yet, anyway.

God, but he’s a mess of nerves tonight. His foot keeps thumping the ground in musical intervals, eyes darting about the crowds with trepidation.

It’s another ten minutes before a tap on his shoulder makes him jump, whirling around to see who it is, breath stolen from his lungs in an instant. Barry stands in front of him, saying some kind of apology for being late and Hal’s really not listening, focused instead on how beautiful he looks; how much he stands out compared to the other carnival goers.

A red off-the-shoulder blouse is tucked into a blue, pleated skirt, and he’s wearing old, worn-out combat boots, hands gripping the straps of a simple backpack like his life depends on it. Nerves, no doubt, for seemingly turning up late. The colours seem to make Barry glow, or maybe it’s just the lights behind him.

Hal can't help the way his eyes stray to Barry’s collarbones, swallowing thickly at how soft he looks there. Briefly, Hal wonders what it might be like to kiss him, right here, to leave a little mark on his neck.

“It’s fine,” Hal manages to say around the blood rushing in his ears. “It’s not like we planned the whole thing in advance. Kind of our fault. No big deal.” 

He hopes he sounds reassuring enough that Barry won’t feel guilty throughout the whole thing. It seems like he was. Barry’s shoulders drop with a sigh of relief, and he reaches out to hook their arms together. “So I don’t get lost,” he says, a flustered note in his voice.

They get attracted to the bumper cars first, where Hal insists he’ll rack up the most points, and gets thoroughly thrashed by Barry instead. It’s not his fault, though. Barry blew into his ear before they started, and it threw him off from the beginning. The person manning the cars is trying not to laugh behind their hands. 

Hal lets himself pout, sinking into his seat with a sulk.

“Cheater,” he accuses.

“Sore loser,” Barry grins back, holding out a hand to help him up. 

He is, though he’ll never admit it. Guy nearly beat his high-score on tetris once, and Hal took out the whole plug so he wouldn't get the satisfaction. 

Huffing, he dusts off his pants, nodding towards whack-a-mole. “Bet I can beat you at those.”

“What are you betting?”

Jokingly, he says, “a kiss for the winner,” not at  _ all  _ expecting how quickly Barry’s eyes dilate. Interesting.

“We’ll see,” Barry tells him, voice a little dry. 

It’s not a “no.”

He lets himself show off, just a bit, doing dumb poses and singing a song about the game, pulling laughter from Barry’s lungs until he’s doubled over and wheezing, unable to concentrate on his own score.

Barry loses spectacularly. “You,” he manages to say, “are a goddamn  _ cheater _ .”

“You didn’t say there were  _ rules. _ ”

“Well -” Barry sighs, turning on his heel - “I guess you  _ don’t  _ want a kiss then.”

“Now wait just -” floundering, Hal splutters - “I’m not saying I don’t! I mean, maybe, like, possibly no since I was - I was joking! Mostly. But if you were serious then -”

A press of soft lips against his cheek shuts him up. “Be quiet,” Barry teases, “and I might be tempted to give you another one.”

Oh.

That's...very bold. And not something he was prepared for, which probably shows on his face - a very deer in the headlights look - because it prompts Barry to roll his eyes skyward, smile softening into something else. Something dearer.

“Come on,” Barry urges, grabbing his hand, “there’s a teddy bear I want to win.”

The last time anyone had won a teddy bear around him had been when - when he was dating Carol. The memory leaves a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. He shakes it off as best he can, letting Barry drag him to the rigged ring toss, refusing to let his own issues ruin the night.

The guy manning the stall looks like he dropped out of education when he was 14, and just went through his third divorce. His voice is nasally when he speaks, skin an unhealthy shade of red. “Five rings,” is all he says, holding out his hand for money. 25 cents a try for a rigged game. Hal scoffs into his sleeve.

The bear itself is a dark brown, scruffy looking thing, with a green scarf and little boots. It looks like something you'd buy out of the charity stores, but Barry is determined for some reason, so Hal watches him miss every shot for three rounds before he steps in.

Barry moves out of the way with as much willingness as he can muster, glaring vehemently at the game.

"It's  _ rigged _ ," he insists. 

He's right, of course, because they always are, but Hal's not going to let him off that easily. "Your aim is so bad that you missed the stand entirely. Four times." 

Barry throws him a filthy look, unable to deny it. He looks adorable.

Five rings. Five chances. As usual, the first two bounce off the poles, curving unnaturally to the left. Hal still hasn’t figured out how they manage to do that, but he knows the patterns enough that he can account for them. 

He  _ could  _ just leave it. Miss the other shots and convince Barry to go somewhere else. Except he's not a man who accepts defeat easily, and Barry really does look a little in love with that bear. He can also play fair, and use the rigged trajectory to his advantage, or he can cheat the whole system. Again. 

Thinking it over for nothing more than a split second, Hal picks up the other three rings...and launches himself over the desk, slamming them into place with a cry of victory.

He grabs the bear next, narrowly avoiding the pissed off vendor, then takes Barry's hand and  _ bolts _ through the Carnival, dodging past the crowds and weaving through tight turns so the vendor will lose sight of them. He never lets go of Barry’s hand. They laugh the whole time; joyous and care-free, collapsing side-by-side on the field, directly beneath all the stars.

Barry is holding the bear up high with reverence, eyes sparkling and lips pulled back enough that Hal can see his teeth.

“What are you going to call it?”

“Highball.”

Raising a brow, Hal repeats, “highball?”

“Yep.” Sitting up, Barry tucks the bear carefully into his bag, withdrawing the dumb dance book instead. “Highball.”

“Why Highball?”

Barry doesn’t look at him, when he answers, focusing on the poses inside his book. “No reason,” he murmurs. “I just like the name.”

The poses in Barry’s book are professional, heads bent back at an angle, backs straight and every step illustrated to perfection. Hal hates looking it at. There’s no soul in those pictures; just instructions and words upon words of useless nonsense. Still, Barry reads it all intently, chewing his bottom lip as he tries to absorb the information.

Hal rolls his eyes. He won’t be learning much from  _ that _ .

Standing with a flourish, he takes the book from Barry’s hands, ignoring the protests, and slams it shut. He tosses it over his shoulder, and holds out a hand, bent at the waist.

“It’s just a street party,” Hal teases, “you won’t need to worry about having proper form. So long as you can do the steps, I don’t think anyone will pay attention to the rest.”

Barry doesn’t look convinced. He takes Hal’s hands anyway, and only jumps a little bit when Hal places one just below his shoulder blade once they’re both standing. “Sorry.” He gives Barry a half-shrug, stepping back a bit to give him space. “Force of habit.”

Taking a breath, he has to force himself not to step too close or adjust his own posture. This is supposed to be casual, afterall, and he’ll only make it awkward if he turns too stiff.

He takes an easy, slow lead, just two steps at a time, murmuring encouragement like he remembers his father doing. Barry is trying very hard to keep up with him, but it quickly becomes obvious that he has no sense of what to do, and he’s sort of a disaster in the making.

He can’t dance worth a dime, which Hal is trying very hard not to laugh at, but Barry keeps looking down at his feet with the utmost frustration, concentrating as hard as he can like that’ll somehow magically stop him from losing the rhythm. Or stepping on Hal’s toes.

“Look -” Hal pulls him in closer by the waist, delighted at the blush he gets in return - “stop trying so hard and just follow my lead.”

“Easy for you to say,” Barry mutters.

It  _ is  _ easy for him to say. His family are all prolific in ballroom dancing, learning the steps from the time they can safely walk on their own, so Hal has  _ years  _ of experience under his belt. Barry’s not the worse dancer he’s ever seen though. That lovely achievement belongs to Guy, who's the physical embodiment of “white dad dancing.” It’s embarrassing.

“Like this,” he instructs, starting up a simple rhythm, counting the steps for Barry to follow, “one, two, three, one, two, three,” just like he’d been taught as a child. 

It’s easy, getting lost in this imaginary beat between them. The stars reflect in Barry’s eyes, seemingly leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. 

Barry loosens up the more that they dance, stumbling steps becoming more confident, until they’re striding across the grass, spinning in circles like they’ve been doing this together their whole lives.

He stops looking at his feet, focused instead on Hal’s face and the intensity makes Hal blush. “What -” Barry wets his lips, thinks over what he wants to say - “what  _ would  _ be the proper posture? For this?”

“Well.” Clearing his throat, Hal reaches up with the hand he’d kept resting on Barry’s lower back, and uses it to bend his head, tilting it at such an angle that it looks vaguely uncomfortable. “ _ That _ would be a start.”

Lashes fluttering, Barry hums a note. “I think,” he breathes, stepping so their hips touch, “I might need more practice.”

“Probably,” Hal agrees, very carefully ignoring how easy it would be to slot their mouths together.

Just a summer fling, he reminds himself, starting up a new song for their dance. That’s all. No more heartbreaks.

His heart skips a beat anyway.

~~~

“You danced with him?” Oliver says slowly, “on a first date?”

“It wasn’t a -”

“Harold.” Oliver levels him with a blank look, putting down his tools so he can thread his fingers together. “You danced under the moonlight. You won him a teddy bear.” Point taken. “It was a date.”

Alright fine. So it was a date, that doesn’t mean anything like Oliver is implying. Probably. “I’m just keeping to my promise. That’s all,” he insists, losing track of where he is in his book.

“You,” Oliver announces gleefully, “are an idiot. And I can’t wait to say ‘I told you so.’”

He re-reads the same paragraph another ten times before he gives up entirely, shoving it back under his pillow and curling up on his side.

“Are you sulking again?”

“No.” 

Yes. 

Oliver sinks down next to him, splayed out on his back. “It’s okay if you like him, you know.” He’s not completely convinced about that. 

“Before I got with Dinah,” Oliver continues, voice a little louder, “you  _ know  _ how many bad relationships I had.” He does. They all do. Oliver’s family is rich, and most of his dates before her had only wanted a piece of the money he had to offer. “But I kept trying. Even when it hurt.” Oliver rolls onto his side, head propped on his arm, an exasperated smile on his lips. “All I’m saying,” he mutters, “is that maybe it’s time you give yourself a break. Give him a chance.”

If Oliver is the one telling him this then...maybe it  _ would  _ be okay to try again. Just for the summer. To see where it goes. “When did you become such an optimist?”

Oliver snorts. “The day that Dinah pushed me off my surfboard.”

“Disgusting.”

“I know,” Oliver grins, “isn’t it wonderful.”

~~~

He doesn’t  _ plan  _ on taking Barry out to dinner it’s just - they’ve been meeting up more, recently, getting ice-cream together and holding hands as they walk down the street. He hears that the party went well, even though Barry ended up shoving someone’s face into a cake, and the cops got called because of how loud the music was.

He thinks that Barry’s taste in milkshakes is horrendous (“mint and  _ strawberry _ ?”) and Barry thinks his own is too sweet to be healthy (“Lime and vanilla with - chocolate orange flakes? How are you  _ still alive _ ?”).

They talk about Sherlock Holmes - Hal even borrows some of Barry’s books, getting unashamedly hooked after the first few pages - and they do a whole essay together about how Watson had been in love with Holmes the entire time, but never had the nerve to confess. 

They binge-watch Star Trek together - because it’s criminal that Barry has never seen it before - and that opens up a whole new debate. Barry is convinced that Scotty isn’t actually Scottish, but Hal says otherwise. They both agree that Kirk and Spock are married, or, at least, they should be.

“ _ If _ I ever got married,” Hal tells him once, “ _ big _ if, mind you, I’d have a Star Trek wedding.”

“Would the guests be dressed like they work on the Enterprise?” 

“Absolutely.” He nods, confident. “There’d be no point otherwise.”

Barry laughs at him, of course, but there’s no malice behind it. He laughs behind his hand, Hal has noticed, like he can stop the sound from escaping if he covers it up enough. 

Hal can’t ever see himself getting married; he wonders if Barry ever would.

They meet up at the library every day, 11:50 sharp, and sometimes they talk and sometimes they sit in silence, lounging in each other’s space as Hal does crossword puzzles and Barry keeps up with his studies. Barry’s been in his car exactly three times by now; the first, just after their carnival date, when he dropped Barry off at the station so he could catch his train. 

He’s impressed with the car, not that Hal blames him. Who wouldn’t be? It’s a mercedes that he inherited from his father; metallic green with silver glitter. 

The second time had been a joyride; he’d been going 70 down a 60 limit road, his californian blood singing high and loud, a crescendo that beat even faster when he saw the glee on Barry’s face, the way his scarf was blowing behind them. Straight out of hollywood, he’d thought, mesmerised. 

Third time was the charm, however, a simple cruise down empty, quiet lanes, surrounded by trees that opened up to a high clearing over the beach, where the stars met the earth’s horizon and the waves shimmered beneath the moon. They were leaning against the hood, laughing at each other’s stupid jokes, sharing a bottle of gin, not a care left in the world between them.

Hal finishes telling a story about the time Guy and Oliver got their heads stuck in a tree-trunk, and John had to get his axe out of the shed to cut them out of it. Barry says, “maybe I’ll get to meet them one day,” and Hal feels his world tilt on an axis.

It isn’t bad. Just...unexpected, the way his stomach flutters pleasantly at the thought. His lips feel dry, all of a sudden, so he wets them with his tongue, palms sweating though he can’t tell why. There’s no reason to be nervous or excited; nothing for him to anticipate in this moment. 

He  _ wants  _ Barry to meet them, is the thing. That’s a very dangerous road; one of commitments and a real status attached to the name. 

“Maybe.” He keeps the reply neutral, reaching for another swig of the bottle. His head feels lighter. His heart hasn’t stopped trying to suffocate his lungs. 

He doesn’t know when it happens - who moves first - but when his mind clears, somewhat, their faces are closer together, breaths mingling, noses almost brushing. He could lean in, right now, and seal the whole deal with a kiss. He’d be Barry’s first. It excites him as much as it terrifies him. 

He swipes his thumb against the corner of Barry’s mouth, delicately ignoring the hitch in Barry’s breath, and leans away from him, clearing his throat. “You had something there,” Hal lies. Barry does a good job of hiding it, but Hal can see the disappointment in his gaze. He hates that look. Feels like he needs to replace it, somehow. Make up for his mistake. “There’s a really nice restaurant downtown,” he’s saying before he can stop himself.

Barry perks up with interest. “Yeah?” He asks, breathy and quiet.

“My folks used to -” he swallows, forces himself to bite back the memories of his father - “ dad took mom there a lot. We could...go there. If - if you wanted, of course.” His laugh is clearly forced, nervous hicks more than anything. He’s never taken anyone there before. Not even Carol. It’s always been too personal, though it  _ is  _ a very nice restaurant. Expensive, too, but the atmosphere…

Barry’s hand touches his own, gently, threading their fingers together. He looks at Hal with the stars in his eyes, a galaxy that keeps pulling Hal closer. “I’d like that,” he murmurs, shyly. “On Saturday, maybe?”

Saturday is good. It’s so damn good it’s ridiculous. The place does challenges on weekends, and the band comes in to play live in the gazebo. A few days to plan ahead for the occasion is perfect; it gives him time to fuss over what to wear and have a Bisexual Panic in the bathroom for three hours before John inevitably helps him out and picks a suit for him.

He agrees, and when they get back into the car - when Barry has to finally  _ leave  _ \- their hands stay touching on the gear-stick. 

The date can’t come soon enough.

\---

“I thought you said this was just a “casual fling”.”

“It  _ is  _ a casual fling,” Hal insists, shoving John’s feet off the bed so he can lay out his sixth suit option. It’s a bright pink with a purple shirt, but it might be too flashy for a dinner date. Maybe the green and red one would be better.

Kyle, where he’s leaning out the window to take sketches of the birds, snorts. “Hal,” he says dryly, “the last time you wore a suit was when we threw a funeral for Oliver’s history test.” 

“He forgot who Abraham Lincoln was,” he sniffs, like that somehow makes it better. “If you’re not going to help then can you  _ please  _ be quiet? I have a delicate choice to make!”

John leans over to check out his options, obvious disdain passing his face when he sees the pink and purple. “No,” he states simply. “And not the yellow one either.”

Oh, sure,  _ now  _ he’s a fashion critic. Where was this energy when Kyle wore Mickey Mouse thigh-highs with duck sandals? “What’s  _ wrong  _ with the yellow one?”

“It’s a goddamn eyesore.” John reaches out with his foot, harshly shoving it off the bed. His eyes scream, “long live the king.”

“Maybe you should wear something to match his  _ beautiful  _ baby blues,” Kyle teases, fluttering his lashes in such a way that Hal is tempted to push him out the window and let him  _ die  _ on the pavement.

“In that case,” John says, “go with the white and blue. It’s classy.”

Despite his better judgement, Hal responds, “oh so I’m not classy normally, is that it?” then, resigned, he continues, “don’t answer that.”

“Alright.” What an asshole. “Then I won’t.”

Kyle pipes up, “I agree with the white and blue,” but given past fashion choices, Hal selectively decides to go deaf.

He chooses the white and blue, but only because his dumb friends reminded him that Barry’s eyes are the same bright shade as the shirt. Helpfully, they inform him that the only reason they know that is because he’d waxed poetry about Barry’s eyes before. Multiple times, in fact.

He needs to get better friends, he thinks, forcing Kyle to make reservations for him. Hal’s never been all that good with phone-calls.

“This is a dinner date right?”

“Yes,” Hal sighs, “it’s a dinner date.”

Humming, John picks at some lint on his trousers, somehow managing to stay awake after pulling four all-nighters in a row. “Have you thought about what flowers you’re gonna give him?”

…

Shit.

“Er,” he responds, “yeeeees?”

“ _ Harold _ .”

“Give me a - a second please.” 

He’s just gonna. Have a freak-out in the bathroom for a bit. Maybe scream a little. Yeah. 

It takes him forever to choose something. Eventually, Kyle takes pity on him and suggests he go with a white carnation. “To match your suit,” he explains when Hal casts him a doubtful look. He relents at Kyle’s insistence, but he can't help feeling he’s missing something when he catches a glance of the smug look Kyle throws behind his back.

\---

He dithers on Saturday, pacing around his living room until John eventually shoves him outside and locks the door behind him. Hal manages to grab his aviator’s just in time, shoving them onto his nose for security. The drive is nerve-wracking and thrilling at the same time. He can’t wait to see Barry again; to hold his hand and hear his voice.

He pulls up to the library at 3PM, hands tight on his steering wheel. He has to take a moment to compose himself before he steps out of the car, and he’s never been more thankful for a decision in his life when he sees Barry waiting for him, smile bright on his face.

Barry looks...gorgeous. Well, he  _ always  _ look gorgeous so maybe a better term tonight would be handsome. 

A dark brown suit fits against his frame, waistcoat accentuating his hips, and a silk black shirt makes his fairer features pop beneath the streetlights. To anyone else, the sneakers on his feet might look out of place, but they do nothing to dissuade Hal from the notion that Barry is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen in his 18 years of life.

“You look -” he can’t think of the right words to say. It’s like all the chatter in his brain has short-circuited, and he’s left gaping like a fool. “ - you look good,” he settles on, voice about as weak as his knees.

Barry’s not quite looking him in the eyes, ears flushed red. “You’re catching flies,” he says, reaching out to snap Hal’s jaw shut.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Hal seamlessly replies, “well what do you expect, when I have the prettiest firefly right in front of me?”

It’s probably the cheesiest thing he’s said by far, yet the effect it has on Barry is the same; his face explodes into colour, and he rushes to punch Hal’s arm, which hurts a little bit, Hal will admit, but it’s  _ so  _ worth it.

“Just -” Barry gestures, vaguely - “just take me out already.”

Cheerfully, Hal says, “on a date or a with a sniper?”

“Surprise me.”

He opens the passenger side door, then, bowing low with a cheeky wink. “A date it is then.”

Barry rolls his eyes skyward, but there’s humour in his smile when he slips a quarter into Hal’s pocket.

He lets Barry choose the music this time, tapping his fingers when soft jazz filters through his speakers. Which is interesting, because Barry has never been a particular fan of it. He says, “I thought this wasn’t your taste.”

“It’s not.” Barry smirks. “But you are.”

Hal damn near chokes at that, whining about Barry being unfair. “I can’t let you have all the fun,” Barry tells him, and Hal figures that’s fair enough.

“Would it kill you to warn me first, at least? I have a weak constitution you know.”

“Yes,” Barry laughs, “it would kill me. The force of keeping it to myself would make my heart give out.”

Is it possible to fall in love in a single moment? Hal thinks so. The ease in which Barry banters with him, the slip of teasing flirtation when so many others would let Hal take the lead instead is driving him crazy. He’s playing a dangerous game, and it feels like he’s already lost. 

"Well," he manages to say, "we can't have that now, can we?"

He tries to keep his eyes on the road, really, he does, it's just that, well, he finds it easier to talk when he's looking at someone and Barry  _ does _ look fantastic in his suit. 

It's a little distracting, if he's honest, seeing fair skin peeking from behind dark colours, tantalizing enough that he finally understands why Eve ate the apple. That train of thought gets his mind thinking about biblical things, like angels with a thousand eyes and demons who simply asked the wrong sort of questions.

“Cain was the original liar,” he mumbles to himself before he can think to stop.

Barry takes it in stride, used to Hal’s mind jumping around conversations, leaping ten strides ahead of everyone else’s rhythm. “We have to respect a bitch for having the gall to lie to God’s face.”

“Would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Lie to God’s face?”

“To get away with murder?” Barry muses, smiling, “absolutely.”

Hal glances over at him, bemused. “Even though he can see through that bullshit?”

Without hesitation, Barry says, “not if I made a deal with Satan first,” and the bland tone of voice completely does him in.

“Oh my god don’t make me laugh like that I’m meant to be driving!” 

“That sounds like a “you” problem!”

The wheezing continues regardless, and Barry must find it contagious or something because he starts laughing too, and so they end up looking like two idiots in a green mercedes, tears in their eyes as they try to stop each other laughing and fail spectacularly, all flailing limbs at the stop lights.

How they manage to get to the place in one piece at all is a mystery, especially when Barry starts singing a truly  _ bastardized  _ version of the national anthem that includes far too many naughty words to be televised.

When they pull up, the restaurant lights are already illuminating the car park, dazzling and bright, a delicate mix of red and gold. “Tony runs the place,” Hal explains as they enter the doors, seeing the look of wonder in Barry’s eyes. “He’s a friend of mine, and he took over from his dad. He’s done great things here.” 

“It’s gorgeous,” Barry breathes, and Hal swallows the impulse that tells him to say “not as gorgeous as you.”

“The band should start playing in the next hour.” He looks down at his watch just in case, suddenly nervous about getting the time wrong because he  _ really  _ wants this to be perfect. 

The nervousness must show, because Barry hooks their arms together, leaning up to kiss Hal’s cheek. “A band isn’t important,” Barry reassures him. “The rest of the night is.” He glances around the interior, marvelling at the hints of soft pinks and silvers. “Can you even afford it here?”

Hal scoffs. “It’s only three courses, Bar, it’s not a life.”

“I eat a lot remember?”

He does remember, which is why he brought Barry to this place specifically. Tony insists on having large portions. “It rakes in the profits,” he’d said to John once. Hal reckons that the food challenges have something to do with that as well, but he’s never said so out loud.

“Don’t worry,” he grins, “they have competitions too. If you win, you don’t pay for anything.”

Barry’s eyes seem to light up at that, and he tugs insistently on Hal’s arm, a mantra of, “let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” falling humorously from his mouth.

The woman at the desk recognizes him instantly, because Tony always has him on the guest-list just in case, and she takes an interest in the slice of perfect that’s currently dragging him past her with a one-track mind for free food. 

She’s a white mom, so naturally she leans around the corner to watch where they sit. 

A corner by the window, of course, so Barry is hidden from her vulture gaze. 

Hal pulls out one of the chairs, thankful that Tony’s floor is carpeted, taking a low bow. "For the handsome sir," he says, in a piss-poor british accent. 

Barry snorts at his antics, a fond eye roll as he lets himself get seated. Hal sneaks a kiss onto Barry's cheek before he sits down himself, grinning at the blush it causes. “Cheater,” Barry accuses.

“I learned from the best,” Hal replies gleefully.

Naturally, Barry orders one of the challenge meals, a truly ridiculous meal-set that still makes Hal feel a bit faint, and he orders himself a margarita with roasted lamb. 

He silently prays that Barry will be able to eat it all.

Curiously, as he watches Barry animatedly talk about something or other, Hal wonders if this is how his father felt, when he used to sit here with his mom. They were always so disgustingly in love, and Hal had never really understood what was so special about it. He thought he had with Carol but, well, they weren’t all that good for each other, in the end. 

But sitting here and listening to Barry’s latest interest (something about how a planet rains diamonds instead of rain), Hal thinks he finally gets it, just a little. Barry’s eyes seem to reflect all the colours around them - golds and pinks and silvers - creating this...vortex, almost, that pulls Hal in deeper, a siren’s song he’s more than willing to drown for.

Jesus, he’s never sounded so pathetic in his life.

The staff lingers when their food arrives, partly to make sure they’re not cheating and partly because Barry doesn’t  _ look  _ like someone who's capable of packing away 200 hot dumplings in thirty minutes. Except he does it in  _ twenty  _ and even Hal can’t stop the way his mouth hangs open in awe. He gets a mini-applause for his deed, and he has every right to look as smug as he is, to be entirely honest.

Damn but Hal’s pretty sure they should do this more often. Free food for the rest of summer sounds like a nice deal.

“That was,” he manages to say, “the greatest thing I have ever seen.”

Barry blinks at him, slowly, the same way cats do when they’re lying in the sun, completely content. “Really?” His voice is smooth, sated, sounding like he might purr at any second.

A grin pulls at Hal’s cheeks, scrunching up his eyes. “Absolutely,” he says with full confidence. “My worldly experience -” Barry snorts - “makes me an expert.”

“Your worldly experience seems very limited,” Barry dryly responds.

“It’s enough to know an angel when I see one.”

Hal’s noticed that Barry gets flustered over the cheesiest remarks, and this time is no different, his face burning red right to his ears. 

“Shut up,” Barry mumbles, ducking his head to try and hide his face in the scarf he isn’t wearing.

“Never,” Hal says, voice lilting into an almost sing-song tone.

Barry “accidentally” kicks his leg under the table. It sparks a “footsie war” between them that looks completely ridiculous regardless of whose perspective you’re seeing it from, and they only stop because the lights slowly dim down into a soft purple hue, and Hal’s excitement has him turning in his seat, much to Barry’s confusion.

“Finally!” Hal cheers. “The band’s coming out!”

“Good for them,” Barry says, unable to hide the way he leans out to try and see them.

To the untrained eye, it would be difficult to see who's leading the band tonight, but Hal can recognize Bucky’s hair anywhere, and he’s pretty sure he can see Sam at the very back with a saxophone. 

When the music starts up, it’s about as romantic as Hal expected it to be, but the tune itself is a jaunty, happy thing, and it only takes a minute or so for the various couples to start making their way to the main dance-floor to get their groove on.

He turns back to Barry, practically invading his personal space, excited and breathless. “Dance with me,” he says softly, a charming smile on his face.

“I -” Barry stammers - “I barely managed the waltz! What makes you think -!”

“You’ll be fine,” Hal assures him. “It’s just hip movement.” He takes hold of Barry’s hands, pulling him up with very little resistance, and maybe it’s the charge in the air tonight, but Hal doesn’t hesitate to pull Barry in by his waist, pressing their hips together as he intwines their fingers.

It  _ is  _ a lot of hip movement, with barely any space between them, but Hal’s delight is infectious, and his laughter is enough for Barry to relent, despite his own embarrassment at their closeness.

They’re definitely off-beat with the music but so if everybody else, and it must be something about this night, specifically, that has everyone laughing and cheering in delight, though Hal can’t quite place his finger on what. 

It doesn't matter, however, because Barry is laughing right along with him, singing loudly to words he doesn’t even know, and they’re both breathless from it all, spinning and circling and moving their hips almost obscenely. 

Natural progression leads to a dip at the end of the performance, Hal’s hand resting low on Barry’s back, his other one still locked with Barry’s own, and their laughter cuts off with a gasp as they realize their position. 

Hal’s breath stills in his lungs, stomach swooping high with euphoria.

Faces so close together, a mere hair's-breadth away from a kiss, eyes half-lidded in the aftermath of their madlib dancing.

Swallowing thickly, Hal straightens them both out, looking anywhere but Barry, nerves fluttering low in his gut. “That was - ah - um -”

“Fun?” Barry offers softly, smiling oh-so-gently at him.

“Yeah,” Hal says quietly. “It was.”

Barry slips his hand back into Hal’s own, lacing their fingers together. “We should get back,” he whispers. “Or I’ll miss my train.”

Right. Yeah. Barry lives...where-ever he lives. And Hal lives here. Away from him. 

Something heavy settles in his heart, but he ignores it in favour of squeezing Barry’s hand. He’ll deal with whatever that feeling is later.  _ Way  _ later.

Probably.

The drive back is quiet; comfortable. The radio is on low, nothing more than soft background noise, and their hands stay intertwined on the car’s gear stick.

Reluctantly, they both step out of the car once they pull up at the station, lingering next to each other in silence.

Hal opens his mouth to say something, closes it, then tries again. “You -” he starts to say before Barry, in a move that shocks them both, lunges up to muffle his words with a lop-sided kiss.

The force of it knocks his aviator’s askew, and he doesn't have enough time to process or respond before Barry is pulling back with a rushed goodbye, practically sprinting into the station like he has the hounds of hell on his heels. 

Hal raises a hand to his mouth, lips forming a crooked, wobbly smile, and he  _ knows  _ he’s going to be blushing into his pillow all night once he finally manages to unstick himself from the sidewalk and get home.

If he lets out a loud whoop of joy that scares a couple of birds, well, that’s no-one’s business but his own.

~~~

He tells Guy about the dinner date - because that’s what friends are for - when they’re working on a car together; Hal on the wheels and Guy on the engine. He tells Guy how much he enjoyed Barry’s company, about how funny he is and how pretty his eyes are. Guy waggles his brows, rather suggestively, in response, so Hal throws a greasy rag at his big ass forehead.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were obsessed with him.” 

Hal scowls at him, bristling. “I’m not,” he insists. “I talked about my other dates didn’t I?”

Guy hums a note of agreement, though he doesn’t sound completely convinced. “You’ve never talked about ‘em like you might be in love ‘s all.”

Hal’s going to argue with him, he opens his mouth and everything, but he stops short on a strangled note. He might be, is the thing, and that’s never been part of the plan before. That would mean he’s setting himself up for disappointment and failure. Hal doesn’t  _ do  _ failure. He’ll just have to go on another date to prove it. 

“So,” Guy continues, “when do we get to meet this  _ charming  _ fox of yours?” 

Hal flushes scarlet. Guy, the absolute dickhead, starts bellowing with laughter, tears streaming down his face. “Shut up and fix the stupid engine already!”

“Whatever you say, lover boy!”

Hal’s going to kill him. It’ll be slow and painful and he’ll enjoy every second of it. It’s a goddamn tragedy that he needs Guy to help him fix this dumb car for the Lane’s.

Doesn’t mean he can’t fantasize a little bit though.

“You won't meet him,” Hal tells him with confidence, “it’s just a summer fling remember?”

Guy side-eyes him, knowingly, and the amusement in his voice is palpable. “Sure it is, buddy. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

~~~

Here’s the thing; they don’t stop at dinner dates. Hal’s always stopped at dinner dates, if he even goes at all. Tiny cafes and small coffee shops, sure, but he’s been taking Barry to the big diners for the meal challenges, constantly impressed by how much he can scarf down without making too much of a mess. 

“It’s an art,” Barry had said proudly. “The faster I eat something, the faster I can leave.” 

Hal had laughed so much that he needed to pull his car to the side of the road, again, bending over the steering wheel in fits of wheezing giggles. It’s becoming a habit, he’s noticed.

They’re racking up the point cards like nothing - within a week they have enough for three free meals and two tickets to see a movie. He gives the free meals to Kyle because god knows how much the silly artist needs it, and he gets a very teary hug in return. 

“What film should we see?” Barry is asking him, leaning over into Hal’s space from his seat in the car as much as he possibly can.

“A horror,” he says, snorting at the look he gets in return. “What?” He asks innocently, “no good?”

“You really think there’ll be any good ones?”

Good point. Summer is hit-or-miss with the horrors, and even if it’s free, Hal would rather  _ enjoy  _ the film they get to see then zone out after the first ten minutes.

Shrugging, he thinks about some of the films he’s heard his family gush over recently, but only one really comes to mind. “My mom liked ‘Battle of the Sexes’.”

“No.” Barry’s mouth does a weird twisted grimace. “No offense to her or anything but…”

“Nah, I get it. It sounds a little -” he makes an iffy gesture with his hand, hoping to convey the feeling. He succeeds. 

“What about a musical?”

Musicals are a safe bet. The songs will be catchy at least, even if the plot is bad. Barry suggests “West Side Story” and Hal can’t find any reason to object. 

“Fine,” he says, “but I reserve the right to distract you if it’s boring.”

“Sure.” Barry grins. “But it’s a two-way deal.”

They’re talking about kissing, of course, which is something they’ve been doing a lot more recently, mostly because Hal refuses to let Barry get away with catching him off-guard.

“I have skills,” he’d sniffed to Barry’s amusement. “And it would be a tragedy if I didn’t use them.”

“You mean ‘show off’,” Barry had accused him before silencing Hal’s protests with another kiss. That one was their fourth, not that Hal is counting or anything.

The drive to the open cinema is shorter than it probably should be, and it’s mostly spent with the both of them fighting over the radio station, bickering over Marvin Gaye and Elvis Presley like it might start a fist fight. 

“If I listen to that Hound Dog song one more time -!”

“ - that’s not what it’s called -”

“ - I don't care what it’s called, Hal, it’s driving me - don't you dare laugh you know that pun wasn’t intentional -”

“ - we’re pulling up now. You better get back in your seat.”

Barry throws him a filthy look, sinking into his seat and sticking out his tongue.

“Careful,” Hal warns, “you know I like to bite.”

“And you know that I bite right back.”

Absolute bastard, Hal thinks, handing their tickets to the staff. He tongues the bruise on his lip absentmindedly, caught up in the memory of when Barry bit it that morning while they kissed behind the station.

Here’s the thing: the film isn’t boring. He’s not paying much attention to the plot itself but the songs are good, and he likes anything with a good flow to it, but lack of boredom is disappointing. He’d been hoping for an excuse to kiss Barry some more, maybe leave a hickey on his neck again.

The old one looks like it’s starting to fade, which, in Hal’s opinion, is a travesty. He zones out as he looks at the fading mark, peeking out just above the collar of Barry’s shirt, and Hal has a moment to think that what he’s about to do might be  _ stupid  _ and could, potentially, make things very awkward.

He does it anyway. 

Barry’s neck is always soft to the touch, smooth and unmarred. Surprising, given how many fights he’s apparently gotten into over the years. Barry jolts when Hal’s lips press lightly against his skin. He doesn’t move away, so Hal nips him, breathing a little heavier when Barry shudders and moves his head to the side for better access.

He works his way up to Barry’s jaw, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, smiling at the soft snickers he gets in return. “I’m doing all the work here,” he murmurs teasingly. 

Barry hums a note of agreement, turning to catch Hal’s lips with his own. The film is, for all intents and purposes, completely erased from Hal’s current thoughts, busy as he is focusing on the  _ surge  _ of heat in his stomach. It’s Barry’s fault for getting nippy and pressing his hands under Hal’s shirt, he reasons. They didn’t  _ have  _ to get handsy about it. Not that he’s complaining, of course.

Not to be outdone, Hal slips a hand to the back-pockets of Barry’s jeans, pulling him forward to deepen the kiss further, slipping a tongue past Barry’s teeth just to hear the answering groan.

Hal pulls back to try and get a breath or two back in his lungs - really Barry had no right to be this good at kissing. His efforts are rewarded with an impatient growl, Barry reaching up with one hand to grab the front of his jacket, pulling him back into another harsh kiss that’s half-teeth and half-grinning.

He loses track of them all after the fourth - or was it the fifth? - finding himself shifting further onto Barry’s seat, the gear stick digging just this side of uncomfortable into his hip.

(Hal can’t quite place who it is that’s undoing their belt buckle faster, but he has a feeling it’s  _ definitely  _ Barry.)

“Mm - I thought you’d only - distract me if - the film was boring,” Barry pants between kisses, chasing after Hal’s mouth every time he stops.

“What makes you think it’s not?”

He dives back in to bite Barry’s neck before Barry can answer, swiping his tongue against the indents left behind to soothe the pain, and gets Barry’s hands in his hair for the trouble. They tug insistently at his locks, drawing a pleased groan from his chest. It doesn’t even matter that he’s leaning over the gearstick, hips twisted uncomfortably, because Barry is all he’s focused on, with his chapped lips and deft fingers.

It’s not the first time he’s ever gotten this far with someone - and at the pace they’re going he can tell where they’ll end up - but it feels  _ different  _ somehow; more intimate. 

He’s learning all over again, the way to kiss and feel, how to reach out and slip your hand beneath a shirt - how to press against skin and undress someone without ever breaking lip contact for too long. He feels like he’s starving and drowning all at once; everything Barry gives is too much and not enough, a weird paradoxical thing between them.

Neither of them is paying attention to the film at all, anymore, too wrapped up in each other, clothing mussed and jackets loose around their elbows.

“Because you were humming along to the songs,” Barry points out, dragging him back in for another kiss, hot and heavy, Hal’s hands slipping under Barry’s shirt, flat against the slope of his stomach.

Barry pushes him back onto his seat, up against the window, caging him in with one hand next to Hal’s neck. It’s probably the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him. Jacket and shirt are divested in short order, thrown carelessly onto the back seat, Barry moving with purpose as he pops the button of Hal’s jeans, sucking a mark into his neck that makes Hal throw his head back with a shudder.

Barry’s other hand palms against his crotch, and Hal swears vividly at the sensation. Barry chuckles against his skin, leaving kisses and nips wherever he can reach. Hal grabs him by the hips, pulling them closer to try and get more friction, pleased when Barry hisses.

“Nn - thought you said you’d never -”

“ - just because I haven’t kissed,” Barry breathes, a cocky smirk on his lips that bare the slightest hint of teeth, “doesn’t mean I haven’t slept around before.”

Ah, always with the surprises, his Barry. Lifting his hips, he watches, breath coming short and fast, as Barry mouths his way down his stomach, fingers divesting Hal of his belt in quick time, and the zipper on his jeans is, surprisingly, the quietest sound in the car. 

It’s an awkward position to be in, twisted as they are around the seats and the gear stick. Their elbows keep catching on the steering wheel, and one of Hal’s legs is going dead where Barry’s weight settles. None of that matters in the moment, however, too caught up in the feeling of everything for Hal to pay much notice.

Barry’s mouth is hot against his skin - skilled in a way that makes Hal shudder and grip the headrest of his seat with purpose, head resting against the window so he can focus on his breathing, head spinning in dizzying circles. Fuck, but Barry gives as good as he gets.

~~~

“Alright,” Kyle says, loudly banging the hood of his car shut, “I’m gonna stop you right there. I don’t need all the details.”

Hal lets himself grin, salaciously, because riling Kyle up with his Shakespearean levels of story-telling is one of his favourite past-times. “You’re just jealous that Guy still hasn’t had sex with you yet.”

Kyle throws his hands into the air, frustrated. “He’s such a romantic!” He complains, loudly. “He wants to wait until graduation and I love him, Hal,  _ fuck _ , I do but have you  _ seen  _ the way he looks at me sometimes?”

He has, unfortunately, and it’s a little bit disgusting if he’s honest. Like Guy is just gonna pounce on Kyle the first chance he gets and rail him on a park bench or something. At least have some  _ class  _ and wait until nighttime so no-one can  _ see  _ you. “Touchy subject, right, got it.” He tries to stand up and leave the room, quietly as possible, but Kyle whirls around and pushes him back onto the sofa with a show of strength that betrays his character.

He should've never said anything. Kyle can go on for hours about all the kinky crap he wants to try with Guy, and that’s really not a visual Hal needs right now. Or ever. 

_ One day _ , he swears to himself, he’ll learn to keep his stupid mouth shut.

Abruptly, Kyle stops mid-sentence, turning to him with eyes so wide they immediately set Hal’s teeth on edge. “Oh my god,” Kyle gasps, “you’re in love with him, aren't you?”

“Wha - no!” He splutters, far too quickly. “I just like holding his hand and going on dates and -”

“ - and gushing over him  _ every  _ chance you get?”

“Yes!” Then, with dawning horror, he says, “I mean, no, I mean - maybe? Sometimes. Probably. Argh why do you do this!” 

“Well someone’s gotta point it out to you!” Kyle argues.

“No they don't,” Hal snaps, “I could remain blissfully unaware of my own situation.”

Kyle gives him a withering look, crossing his arms in a way that reminds Hal of his own mother when she caught him smuggling crabs into the garden.

Unlike his mother, Kyle has paint on his cheek and grease on his hands that elicit very over-18 images of him and Guy bent over a car. He shakes those away as quickly as possible, cursing himself for getting so easily side-tracked.

“How long,” Kyle asks, “have you felt that way?”

Hal doesn’t know. It’s news to him, too, though in hindsight it probably shouldn’t be.

“Hal,” Kyle says, softly.

His mind is a whirr of thoughts, retracing every step to try and find the definitive, but nothing stands out - it all seems so natural, so  _ normal _ , and he hadn’t even noticed.

Mrs Rayner, his saving grace in these trying times and the woman he’s going to dedicate a whole religion to, knocks on the door separating the garage from the kitchen, and asks, “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

He doesn’t, not at all, because he has a whole heap of a breakdown to get through and he’s certainly not going to do it here. God forbid Mrs Rayner try to help the problem. The awkward conversation she’d had with Kyle about his being gay had been enough for all of them.

“Thanks Mrs R,” Hal calls out, hastily grabbing his jacket, “but I  _ really  _ have to get going. Mom’s doing a pot roast and I don’t want my brothers to get the good bits of meat.”

He doesn’t feel at all bad for the bullshit lie, even when Kyle says, confused, “I thought you had stew on Thursdays?” and exits the house as if pursued by a bear.

Scampering back to the safety of his home, he locks himself into his room, falling face first onto the bed with a sigh of relief. John will be back soon for the stew with his folks, and then Hal can forget about the disturbing images his brain has conjured up about Kyle on the way back. 

Having super attractive friends is a curse. Anyone who says otherwise is a fool and a liar.

He tries thinking about Barry, instead, but that just makes the problem in his jeans worst, because all he can focus on is how good Barry’s mouth had felt and he kind of wishes he didn’t have to go downstairs. Preferably ever. 

He tries his best to ignore how this all might end soon. He doesn’t succeed. 

Guy’s words from a few weeks ago come to him, about how he’s never talked like he  _ might  _ be in love with someone before.

It’s downright  _ terrifying _ to know, now, that Guy was right. Somehow, somewhere, he’d fallen in love. 

Everything is going to end; Hal’s going to be the one to do it.

~~~

College starts in a few days, and they’re standing at a crossroads, a thousand miles between them. Barry is lit by the setting sun, leaning against a pillar as he waits for his train, and Hal watches him from his place in the shadows, terrified of everything he’s learned about himself over this one summer.

Hal had made the mistake of getting Barry’s number, which had led to them talking almost every night, and that hadn’t really helped Hal’s situation any. If anything it just solidified how utterly he’d screwed up. 

He’s in love. He’s in  _ love  _ and that's not possible, it’s never been part of the plan - wasn’t  _ meant  _ to happen at all but it  _ has  _ and now he -

Now he has to make this choice. This horrible, life-altering choice, and it doesn’t matter  _ what  _ he chooses because he’s a coward either way. He can’t keep Barry for himself; not when their lives are so different. But he can’t - can’t  _ fathom  _ letting him go either, with all his bright smiles and chapped lips; his bottomless stomach and disregard of gendered anything.

Hal wants to sob, “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” and he wants to scream, “I can’t do this it’s too hard, I can’t be selfish,” until his voice runs hoarse. He wants Barry to take this choice away from him - to kiss him into blissed silence or shove him as far away as possible.

“Hal?” Barry reaches up to touch him and Hal jerks away, stepping back from this perfect man in front of him like he’s being burned. He can’t look at Barry’s face - at the shock and hurt he’ll no doubt find there.

It can’t last forever, is the thing, as much as he wants it to. Barry had said that he was here for education, which means he’s probably going to some really fancy place that Hal can only dream about tearing down from the inside-out. 

That’s what seals the deal for him. He’s not good enough for this. He’s a coward, sure, but he’s never had to face the idea of his heart being broken before. 

He’s going to beat himself up about this later, he knows, no matter how much he tries to rationalize that it’s the best for them both.

Hal bites the inside of his cheek, steeling himself for the inevitable. “I don’t think we should keep -” he gestures between them, helplessly - “ _ this _ going. It was fine for summer but, you know.” He shrugs, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. “Different lives and all that.” The excuse sounds weak; pathetic and not at all convincing.

It makes him wince.

“So this is... _ just _ a summer fling then?” 

Barry looks at him, confusion marring his features, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as if trying to figure out where the joke is. Hal swallows roughly. It’s for the best, he tells himself, rip it off like a band-aid. He’s done it before, he can do it again. Except it’s never been this hard before. People have always been happy enough to brag about having him as their summer fling, and that’s worked for him, usually, but looking at Barry now…

Hal feels his heart tear in two.

“I mean it’s for the best right?” He tries to make it sound light-hearted but it mostly just feels very hollow. “We lead really different lives and we...probably don’t even go to the same college -” he’s dragging this out when he doesn’t need to and wow when did he start stuttering like this? - “and anyway I’m not the kind of guy you should be dating.” He licks his lips, eyes darting everywhere but Barry’s face. “I’m constantly getting into trouble and, this is no offense to you, of course!” He says hastily, “but you do...kind of look like an easy target.”

“An easy target?” Barry repeats, eyes stormy and mouth pulled into a frown.

“You look soft,” Hal explains meekly. Barry looks like he might punch him in the mouth, which Hal reckons he deserves.

“You - you really don’t think this will work?”

Fuck, but Hal nearly breaks right there. He’s made his decision now; he can’t just take it back and give a mixed message. “No,” he manages to choke, “I don't.”

The soft kiss that Barry presses against his cheek stings like acid. There’s no malice or anger in the gesture; just affection.

So forgiving and understanding and too fricking perfect for a guy like him. Barry will find someone better. He’ll move on, probably, and so will Hal. No big deal. Just another summer fling.

When Barry pulls back his smile is sad;  _ regretful _ . Good luck,” he murmurs, and then he’s gone, leaving Hal to stand there, regretting ever saying anything. 

_ Way to fuck it up, _ he scolds himself, _ congrats. You just lost the best thing that’s ever happened to you. _

~~~

He refuses to admit that he’s moping. It’s been three days, and college starts up tomorrow. He’s laying on his bed with Guy Gardner, one hand under his head as he repeats the whole ordeal to his friends. Oliver glances up, briefly, from whatever invention he’s working on that’ll blow up in his face, to give Hal the most unimpressed look he’s ever seen.

“You know,” Guy says, propping himself up against the pillows, “for someone who was ‘just a summer fling’ you seem pretty hung up about this dude.”

He isn’t “ _ hung up _ ” about anyone. It’s not his fault that Barry was intelligent and kind and funny and fricking  _ gorgeous _ . He’d had a summer fling with Ollie in the past too, and now they were best friends but that didn’t mean he was hung up on anyone! So he liked blondes, big deal, no problems here.

Except that Guy is, kind of, maybe, sorta right, because Hal  _ has  _ been talking about him an awful lot, and he  _ does  _ keep thinking about how pretty Barry’s eyes are, and how soft his lips were, even with the chaps where he kept biting them to stifle his laughter.

“Barry was just -” Hal starts to say, then cuts off, making an irritated gesture with his hand.

“Perfect?” John drawls where he’s playing chess with Kyle on the floor. “We know. You’ve only said it a million times.”

“I haven’t -” he protests, stuttering.

Kyle grins up at him, smug as shit. “You have. I kept a diary to document it all.” The absolute  _ bastard _ .

Sometimes, Hal bristles, he really hates his friends. They’re going to kill him before anything else does. He’s sure of it.

“You’re acting like I should just run after him or something.” He sounds petulant even to his own ears. 

Oliver’s invention lets out a bang, black smoke making him dive to open a window, coughing as he waves it away. “No, what we’re saying,” he manages between the heaves, “is that you should crawl back and beg this guy to forgive you for being a colossal  _ moron _ .”

“Wow,” Hal mocks, “thank you  _ so much _ for your  _ undying support  _ in my hour of need.”

“You’re absolutely welcome,” Kyle smiles, letting out a victorious sound as he, presumably, checkmates John. Again. Why he even bothers trying anymore is a mystery to them all.

Hal doesn’t even know where Barry  _ lives.  _ If he did then...well. Maybe he’d be tempted to follow their advice. If he wasn’t such a coward about it.

He doubts that Barry would forgive him anyway. He’ll just - drown his sorrows in ice-cream or something. 

“Don’t even think about touching the ice-cream,” Guy warns because he’s an asshole. “You’re  _ lactose intolerant _ , remember?”

“Of course I -” 

No. It was obvious he hadn’t, because he never does. He stomps out of the room with as much integrity as he can salvage. It doesn’t help much.

He touches the ice-cream, obviously, because Hal might be intelligent but that doesn’t mean he’s  _ smart _ . He gets through an entire tub of vanilla before his stomach cramps up with protest, angrily reminding him  _ why  _ this was such a bad idea to begin with.

“Instead of  _ moping  _ over your english soulmate, why don’t you just  _ call him _ ?” John sighs heavily where he’s leaning against the kitchen doorway. Hal doesn’t need to turn around to know he has his arms-crossed and his eyes rolled skywards.

“He’s irish, actually,” Hal corrects him mildly, if only so he doesn’t have to admit that he’s just being dramatically pathetic about the whole thing.

“Irish, then,” John says, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t really care.

“I haven’t called him in days,” Hal sniffs. Or, well, he tries to, but it comes out more like a pout - maybe a grumble.

John tsk’s. “Of course you haven’t.” He sighs. “You just can’t do things the easy way can you?”

Evidently, he’s being told that a lot recently. More than anything else about this, he hates that John is  _ right _ .

As usual.

~~~

There’s gossip spreading when he walks in through the college gates that Monday. Rumors flying between the different students like wild-fire, loud and hushed at the same time. Oliver, on top of everything, has already told him about most of them. 

“A transfer student,” he’d said, “from Ireland.”

Barry was from Ireland, Hal had wanted to say, but bit his tongue instead. What would be the odds of that? Zero, that's what. 

It wouldn’t change anything, anyway. There’s no way Barry would get back with him after what he did, even if Hal went crawling on his knees.

“It could be him,” John says, trying not to sound as doubtful as Hal feels.

Guy scoffs beside him. “Please, John. This isn’t a movie.”

That’s a very bold thing for Guy to say, Hal thinks, when  _ he’s  _ the one who went running after Kyle in the rain and shouted a confession so loud that his whole street had heard it. 

At least they’re trying to be hopeful for him, fat lot of good it’s doing. 

Still, curiosity gets the best of them, and they follow the crowds to where the transfer student is supposed to be rolling in. He hears the girls saying the transfer is a ripped dude with red hair and a perfect beard, and he hears some of the dudes say that the transfer is a woman with perfect curves and hazel eyes.

It’s all fantasies, not that it surprises him. There’d been a fair share about Oliver and John when they’d first moved into town, though none of them had been right about John being a twink and Oliver having a lisp. He used to wear glasses though, so that’s something.

A very high-end bike, engine purring like a kitten, skids into the parking lot, the driver’s face covered by a red helmet, but the long legs and muscled thighs are hard to miss. The bike is a BSA Golden Flash, so expensive and out of his price-range that Hal’s mouth salivates at the thought of taking a gander at its engine.

It’s parked in a perfect parallel, the stand kicked down with one smooth movement, and the helmet is removed and placed down onto the seat even easier. Hal leans over people’s shoulders, trying to get a better look. Guy and Oliver, impatient to see what’s going on, push everyone out of the way and that’s when Hal’s heart damn near stops in his chest.

The guy is  _ hot _ , pulling on a rainbow lined leather jacket with a smirk on his lips. Everyone is turning to stare at him, murmurs and whispers in the crowd turning into loud exclamations and dreamy sighs. Hal’s not focused on  _ any  _ of that though. He looks at blonde hair, barely makes out the eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, and catches sight of the bite marks permanently etched onto soft, glossy lips.

His voice is strangled and high when he shouts, “Barry!?” and he can feel the blush that’s staining his face and neck. Behind him, he hears Guy give a low whistle at the same time that John mutters, “god I hope he’s still single.”

Barry isn’t looking at any of them, and he doesn't seem nearly as surprised as Hal is when they lock eyes across the parking lot. “Hal,” he breathes, so happy and awed that it’s a wonder Hal hears him at all. 

The smirk slides back into place, then, more mischievous. Hal’s mouth goes very dry when he sees the way Barry’s walking up to him, a sway in his hips that is very much deliberate. The dancing lessons, Hal notes distantly, have come back to haunt him. The punk rock boots add a few inches to Barry’s height, so when he stops they’re  _ almost  _ at eye-level. “You,” Hal starts, smiling nervously, “look different.”

“Mmhm.” Barry looks up from behind his shades, lashes fluttering. There’s a predatory look in his eyes when he leans up into Hal’s space, breath fanning against his lips, so close to touching. Unbidden, Hal tilts forward, offering a better angle on reflex. “Do I still look like an easy target,” Barry murmurs, so low that it sends pleasant chills down Hal’s spine, “ _ stud _ ?”

He feels like he’s going to combust any minute, his body hot and flushed red. “No,” Hal says, voice airy and distant.

Barry pulls back, rocking on his heels with a smile that Hal remembers from summer. “Good,” he chirps, “because  _ I’m  _ going to eat you alive.”

That’s not something you just  _ say  _ to someone like Hal Jordan; especially not in front of a crowd of people who’d fight each other for his attention, and have done in the past. Behind him, he can  _ feel  _ the respect radiating from his friends. 

The courtyard  _ explodes  _ with activity, and Hal has no doubt in his mind that Barry  _ will _ . He is, strangely,  _ very  _ on board with that.


End file.
